


Souviens-toi, il pleuvait ce jour-là

by Dulcinea



Category: Metallica
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Family Drama, M/M, Relationship(s), Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 22:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3149837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dulcinea/pseuds/Dulcinea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James and Lars attend Virgil Hetfield's funeral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Souviens-toi, il pleuvait ce jour-là

**Author's Note:**

> Pour Audrey (Cookiez). Celui-ci est pour vous.
> 
> Inspired by Yann Tiersen's Amélie OST, Thomas Newman's Shawshank Redemption OST and Road to Perdition OST. Set in February 1996.
> 
> The translation of the title: "Remember, it was raining that day."

James stood among the sea of black with clear blue eyes staring ahead, as if he was leading the clan now that the alpha male moved on, despite being the youngest. He was their family statue, more robust and stoic than his older brothers, more together and calmer than his older sister. They looked up to him. They needed him there.

He's so strong, they whispered in the white hallways of the funeral home. His parents would be proud. He remembers his upbringing. He knows his father wouldn't have liked tears. But do you remember how he was for his mother? He was such a good boy then, showed a little emotion but he was still strong. Oh yes, he seemed so afraid the poor thing. He was only, what, fifteen? Yes, fifteen, such a shame. But he was ready now, yes, definitely ready, I mean look at him, he cut that awful mullet hair, now he looks well-groomed and presentable, a fine man. Yes, yes, oh yes, they all agreed. Yes, James looked good, yes, James could handle this, yes, James dealt the whole thing with such grace and compassion, because James knew, James understood, James's body was temporary and his soul was forever, just like his father taught him.

Such a good boy, they said, with a nod and a smile. A wonderful boy. Virgil loved him so. A strong man. A handsome man, clean-cut and sharp in that pressed black suit. They'd have been so proud of James, how wonderful he turned out. Oh but they are alive, yes they are, and they are watching over him always.

Lars kept his mouth shut.

He stood in the back and watched James like a hawk protecting her young from predators. James was doing good. He interacted with a reverence Lars hadn't seen before. He was gracious, gentle, giving. He consoled his sister and hugged his brothers, talked to his many cousins and aunts and uncles from both families, mother and father. On the outside, James was perfect, the strong little boy they all watched grow up into the quintessential man. But Lars knew better. They wouldn't know that when James looked down, he was eating away his fear. They would never know that whenever James finished talking to a person, he took a deep sigh of relief, thankful that conversation was over. They would never see, never hear, never understand James's true nature. They would never know that his true upbringing happened on the road, not at home; that his hands shook when he spoke; that he fidgeted when he listened to someone talk; that he nervously laughed to fill in weird gaps of silence; that he stuttered when he searched for an answer he didn't know; that this whole time, he was speaking with a masquerade mask on, and none of them would be the wiser. Because they never knew James, and they never will.

"Who are you?"

A plump red-lipped lady in black gawked at Lars like he was a two-headed alien. To her, he probably was. "I'm a friend of James's." He offered his hand. "Lars Ulrich."

Her face soured like she sucked a rancid lemon. "Oh. _You._ " And she turned her back to him.

He said nothing. James warned him not to make a scene. But this was the fifth time someone hadn't shook his hand, the umpteenth time since they walked through the doors together that someone shot him a disgusted look, like he was a tagalong, a freeloader, a bozo picked off the street. They didn't care he'd been by James's side for years. They blatantly ignored him when he tried to talk pleasantries. Some asked if he was a member of the family, when they damn well knew who he was. But the second James showed his face, they performed a Jekyll-Hyde and embraced their relative, consoled him, held him, and turned to Lars as if he wasn't there before and talked to him.

They were humoring James, humoring himself. Judging James, judging himself. He never knew family could be this two-faced and cut-throat, especially for a solemn event like a funeral. It was alienating and discouraging at best, and all he wanted to do was run as fast as he could to the car and drive back to the hotel. But James told him to stay. James warned him they'd be this way.

"They won't like the fact that we're together," he whispered in a hush tone like the first time they made out in the shifting sheets of Lars's bedroom back in El Cerrito. "So don't say anything if one of them gives you a dirty look or some shit. They're just trying to rile you up."

"You never told them?"

"They assumed. I never confirmed or denied."

The rain pelted down hard on the windowshield. James flexed his hands around the leather steering wheel hard. He looked good with the new haircut. They both had theirs done the day before the funeral. Lars fulfilled his tribute to Bono, the soft curls bunched around the nape of his neck, while James cut his redneck ties for the suave cityslicker style. Even his beard was trimmed, the long mustache ends shaved to sharp triangle trims over the upper lip. He changed a lot after they received the phone call a few weeks ago. More solemn. Less gruff. Listened more. Talked less. It was different, a strange, upsetting kind of different, but Lars couldn't tell James that. He couldn't ask James why he bothered grooming himself for a family he hated when Lars felt the same need to fix his straggly shoulder-length locks himself before they donned their black suits. Otherwise, he'd look like a big fat hypocrite, and he didn't want to argue with James anyway. Now wasn't the time.

The Mercedes bumped up and down on the dirt road. They were sincerely driving out into the middle of Southern California Nowhere, but it's what Virgil wanted. With the lack of houses and empty acres of no-man land, he could see the San Gabriel mountain ranges from far away. On a sunny day without a cloud in the sky, Lars imagined it would be a wonderful Los Angelian desert paradise, with the world painted in the fading hues of pinks, oranges and golds from a dying sun. And he would've liked to see it, if Lars didn't hate the area on principle.

James cleared his throat. Another nervous habit.

"Are you mad at me?"

They stopped at a red light. A semi-truck crossed the road.

Lars lifted his left hand onto James's thigh and squeezed.

After a few moments, the light turned green and the car bumped up and down on the jumpy road again. 

Lars didn't move his hand.

"That's not an answer," James said.

"Then don't ask stupid questions."

He smiled then. Half-hearted, but James smiled, and it was enough for Lars's tense shoulders to relax just a little. His hand stayed on James's thigh the whole drive.

It was a beautiful ceremony. A little different from the funerals Lars knew, but it has the similar customs. They were seated away from each other, something Lars expected, and James quickly fixed the arrangement when he learned how far they pushed Lars in the back. He was moved into the second row right behind James, much to the chagrin of the Hetfield family, but James wouldn't budge. It was the only time James showed "that ugly rebelliousness." Considering James was the one paying for most of everything, the family had no choice.

The rest of the time, James was respectful. He never rose his voice above a soft whisper, never lifted a smile more than a few inches, nodded and said his prayers and thank yous, like a perfect obedient little boy would. It frightened and sickened Lars at the same time. He wanted nothing more than to steal James away, take them into their car, bypass the Italian restaurant James wanted to go to later and get as far away as possible from here. This wasn't his James. This was the James he met at seventeen, the boy he fell in love with, but James wasn't that scared little boy anymore. He was a man who had thoughts and feelings, who deserved to have his own beliefs and values, not what the family imposed upon him. His James grew up, became a handsome man who did what he loved and didn't give a fuck what people thought. But in these tight walls confining them like a moldy prison cell, his James regressed, and he hated it.

"You Lars?"

He turned to the voice, knocked out of his thoughts. James's blue eyes were in a stocky man's body. "Yeah, that's me."

He grinned like James. "Chris. James's older brother."

They shook hands. Lars noticed the difference then. James's hands embodied strong. Chris's defined weak. "Hey, nice to meet you."

"Yeah, same. Sorry it's not on such a great occasion though."

Lars shrugged. His hand slipped back into his pants pocket and he rocked on the heels of his feet. "How're you doing?"

"Hanging in there." Chris took a generous sip from his Dixie cup. "I mean, we all saw it coming, with his father refusing treatment and all. It sucked, honestly. Like going through the same thing with mom all over again. It's amazing how he's kept it together the entire time. Could've sworn James was gonna burst like he did the first time."

Lars's hands clenched into fists in his pockets. "Oh?"

"Yeah, at mom's funeral it was pretty bad. He kept it together until the end. Blew up at Virgil, ran away from home, swore he'd never come back, all that stuff. Can't blame him, really. He was only fifteen." Chris frowned, tilting the cup to his lips. "He never told you?"

His heart sunk to his stomach. "Nah. Why would he?"

"But I thought you two..."

"We are." Lars leaned in close. "But when did you expect for him to spill his guts out about something that obviously hurt him a lot?"

"Well, I figured since you two are, uh, together—“

"Two-hundred and fifty days of the year, we're either on the road or in the studio, and James and I made an agreement never to mix personal with professional. The reason why we work together so well is that I push him when it matters-- in the music. I don't push him outside of it. So if he didn't tell me something about Cynthia, it's because the timing wasn't right, okay?"

Chris nodded like a reasonable man. "So you haven't been together long then?"

Lars watched him take a long sip. "What?"

"I'm just saying--" Chris waved the Dixie cup in front of Lars like a red flag. "--if you two are new together, then that makes sense James hasn't opened up to you. I know my brother. He's a shy guy. Trying to get anything out of him is like putting the jaws of life on Fort Knox. It ain't gonna work, you know? But if you guys have been together say, like, eight, nine years..."

"Hey, there you are." James pushed through two cousins to reach them in the back. He clasped a hand on Chris's back, nodding and looking over his shoulder. "Deanna wanted to ask you something, I think about clean up or some shit."

Chris rolled his eyes. "She would." He tipped his Dixie cup to Lars. "Hey, him? Good guy."

James nodded, gave him that half-hearted smile. "Thanks." He watched Chris go, waited for him to be out of earshot range, before he stepped close to Lars and towered over him. "So. You doing okay?"

_No James,_ he wanted to say, _your brother stomped mudholes in my head and heart and would've walked them dry had you not showed up right in the nick of time, but I'm doing okay, the damage has been done, I'm bleeding all over the damn floor but it's all good, I'll manage._

Instead, he faked a smile. "I should be asking you that."

James's smile was small, but at least genuine. The first one he'd seen the whole day. "We'll be out of here in five minutes. I don't want to stay here any longer than I have to. Funeral and thirty minutes of a 'celebration of the fucking spirit' is enough for me."

"Sounds good."

James rested a hand on his side. "Chris say anything to you?"

Lars darted his eyes away. Outside these four walls, he'd lean into James's palm. Here, he felt accusing glares judging their every moment, and his instincts screamed at him to leave, now. "Just wanted to say hi."

"You sure?"

"Ja."

He leaned in. "You look a little upset."

"I'm not. I'm tired and I'm hungry. That's all."

James squeezed his side briefly. "Okay." The hand slipped away. Lars watched it slide into James's left front pocket. "I know you're lying, but okay." He pulled out the jingling keys and pressed them into Lars’s hand. "I'll see you in the car."

Lars closed his hand around them. He lifted his head in time to watch James's expansive back submerge again into the sea of black. Without the blond mullet, James wasn't easy to spot anymore. But he recognized the back of his head, the v-shaped neck hairline and the gelled tips, rounding the corner. And once James disappeared, Lars headed out the back door without a goodbye said.

 

 

Ten minutes later James hopped into the car. Twenty minutes later they parked at the Italian restaurant. Their black suits matched the dark interior, the walls and floors shades of deep red, the furniture made of polished dark oak. Gold lined the doorways, the frames and the tablecloth and red candles dimly lit the area. On a different occasion, at a different time, Lars would've loved coming here for a romantic dinner with James. But he'd probably never be able to. This place was now associated with death.

The waiter situated them beside a wall, where two dark oak columns framed the table. James ordered spaghetti with meatballs and a beer. Lars had fettuccine with a glass of Sancerre. Classical music played, adaptations of pieces Lars recognized. Vivaldi was obvious, Faure and Rachmaninoff not so much. James seemed not to care. He scarfed down his meatballs, pasta sauce sticking to his cheeks, tendrils of spaghetti hanging from his chin. Uncouth and uncivilized. Lars sighed in relief and circled the wine in his hand. James was doing okay.

They hadn't said much of anything outside of 'pass the salt' and 'like the food' in the thirty minutes they spent eating. James fingered through the dessert menu, licking away the residue pasta sauce from his lips, while Lars circled the Chianti now in his wine glass. He had barely touched his pasta. Hunger was quickly sated thanks to the overwhelming nausea that upset his stomach. James hadn't noticed. He devoured his entire plate and two pints of beer before he asked for a dessert tray. Typical James. At 32, he could act like a perfect 13. Maybe it was because James was the youngest at 32 while his brothers were 42 and 44. Ten years created quite a gap between siblings. Not like Lars knew much about that. He was an only child, and the only cousin he considered like a brother was Stein, who was a year younger than him, and they didn't live with each other constantly like James and his brothers did. Lars didn't know what it was like having a sibling next door to pester or have him pester you. He had cousins, many cousins, aunts and uncles from both sides of the family, Torben's and Lone's, but siblings were different. Siblings meant something different, something more, something that single-only-children would never understand. Lars tried to relate to James's upbringing when he brought it up, talking about his brother Dave's record collection or Chris's old guitar, but the closest he got was playing on his father's friends instruments whenever they passed through Copenhagen on tour. It wasn't the same. A sibling handing over an instrument was different than a father's famous close friend in Gasolin'.

"You want something?"

His thoughts were broken for now as he gazed at James across the table. James appeared impassive, but that stare asked him what words couldn't. _What's on your mind?_

Lars shook his head no.

James grunted. He glanced back at the menu. "Suit yourself."

He took a sip of his Chianti, smiling around the glass rim. Without words, they knew what they said. It was maddening at first, frustrating and scary as well. How could he know someone so well without them saying a single thing? That he could predict James's thoughts by way of his body language alone? That James could do the same to him? Like all things he found peculiar and new, Lars poked and prodded every chance he got, learning what drove James mad and pushing him to that point like the annoying, spoiled little brat he still was. Instigating everything, causing little fights, demanding what he wanted, driving people insane while he pissed and moaned and shouted and whined what he wanted. And he liked that James never gave in. He fought back every time and Lars became addicted to that snarl and bite of his.

Teasing James was one of his favorite passtimes. He couldn't help it. Over the years, he went overboard one-too-many times, a bad thing said or a touch too much, but he couldn't stop. The teasing drew them together. The push and the pull, the fights and the arguments... and then everything in between. The moments alone, just he and James and whatever they had, like a bottle of gin or rum or whiskey, or his entire record collection, or James's guitar and his kit. Working together on a song, talking about bands they loved, watching movies together, reading the newspaper for inspiration. As the years added and the music progressed, the arguments grew along with those special moments. It still felt so weird and new, a little crazy at times. They didn't really know what they were doing, in and out of the studio. But after Cliff's death, they clung to each other so hard like they had to, and they made the decision to sort their fucking lives out, otherwise they'd crash and burn. Lars took the reigns then. James wasn't ready yet. But he didn't make any decisions without James's final say, as it always had been in the very beginning.

They grew up. They made more music together, the maturity in their songs reflecting themselves. An invisible, unspoken line emerged as well, a line drawn between the personal and the professional, something they both needed, and it worked out in their favor. Sometimes the line blurred. Sometimes it disappeared completely. But it was a learning process, and they emerged on top every time. They went through so much, grew so closer, that the silent communication wasn't weird anymore but comforting. He liked knowing James's thoughts before he even said them. It made Lars feel secure. Like he knew where he stood with James. That he knew James as much as James knew him.

_But if you guys have been together say, like, eight, nine years..._

Lars gulped down half the glass. 

And yet he couldn't get the wrong Hetfield out of his head.

"You sure you don't want some?"

He startled again, shaken from his thoughts. James's mouth was smudged with chocolate, the creamy fudge tort nearly devoured.

"I'm okay." Lars finished the glass and waved down a nearby waiter. "More Chianti please."

The waiter nodded and headed for the bar. Lars rested the glass next to his plate. The food was good. It looked good. He should probably eat some more of it before he asked the waiter to put it in a box.

Lars picked up his fork and pushed the fettuccine around. He twirled a strand around and lifted it to his mouth. The nausea told him to stop, but he forced his way through it with every bite.

James splattered more fudge across his plate, cutting a piece of the tort. "So. What'd you think of the funeral?"

The waiter came by with the Chianti just in time. He chased the food down with a generous sip. "I thought you did a wonderful eulogy."

"Well, you edited it. That's the only reason it came out well." His blue eyes glanced up, a piece of tort hovering in front of his lips. "And the family? How were they?"

_Two faced fucking assholes. Worthless pieces of shit you shouldn't associate with anymore. I know it was your father''s funeral but that's it. No more. I wouldn't even go to your siblings funerals. They hate us, they hate me, they don't give a shit about you, just you're fucking money. Do you know how many goddamn times they ignored me, gave me disgusted looks like I was a piece of shit they found on the bottom of their shoes? I didn't like that one goddamn bit, and the entire time I wanted to get out of there and run. But I didn't, because they're your family, and I didn't want to make a scene like you said. So after suffering through all that humiliating, belittling bullshit, I'm done and I never want to see them again. They can rot in hell for all I care. Scumbags. Dickheads. I hate them for today and for what they did to you. Especially your goddamn father. Fuck him._

"They're nice."

James snorted. "When they want to be, yeah." He ate the piece of tort and cut up the next one. "Only ones I like are Deanna and Dave. Chris is worth shit like the rest of 'em. Fucking thumbsucker does nothing but mooch-mooch-mooch. No wonder dad threw him through the screen door."

Lars blinked. "When did that happen?"

"Around seven or eight. Couple years later my dad split. I was thirteen."

He said it like it was common knowledge. Like he told Lars this information before, that he was so sure he did, when Lars never heard this ever in the nine years they've been together. It was like he was telling Lars, _Duh, don't you know this?_ and he couldn't snap back, _Of course I don't you fucking moron, you never tell me shit anyway._ Now wasn't the time to act like a child, especially in a public setting like this one, on the eve of a damn funeral.

If he asked the question now -- if he opened up the can of worms like he shouldn't -- who knew how James would take it. Today was emotional enough. James was probably exhausted from everything. The relatives, his siblings, the paperwork, the ceremony, the drive out to Southern California Nowhere-- James's patience was probably at an all-time thin. If he started an emotional outpouring after a grueling, jam-packed emotional day like this, he'd probably push James to a place Lars wouldn't be able to handle. As much as the questions burned him alive, ate at his insides to the point where his body was physically ill, Lars knew better. He had to stay quiet this time and avoid his instincts, had to suppress, not express, for James. He'd do this for James.

"You've been quiet all night, Lars."

He gulped down wine. "Mm."

"Something you wanna say?"

Lars shrugged. He circled the wine around and around. "I'm just tired."

James scraped his fork, picking up stray fudge, the tort gone. Godiva chocolate pieces piled up in one corner of the plate, untouched sliced strawberries rotting beside it.

He scooped up the strawberries and chocolate pieces in a messy forkful and brought it to his mouth.

"You gonna keep lying?"

James cleaned his plate. Lars stared down at his semi-full one. He pushed his fork in the pasta. Cream gathered around the silver ends. His stomach lurched.

Lars took a deep breath through his nose and brought the glass to his lips.

"It's something I shouldn't be thinking about."

He drained the rest of the Chinati. It burned the back of his throat, burn down his chest, burned his stomach. Burned him alive. Everything bottled inside burned him alive.

James cleaned his mouth with the red napkin. He threw it to the plate and leaned back in his chair. It creaked under his weight.

"Uh-huh." He folded his hands in his lap. "And?"

Lars rested the wine glass near his plate. His fingers danced along the edge.

"It's stupid. Really stupid."

James shrugged. "I'm waiting."

He circled his fingers idly around the glass rim. The pasta slowly congealed as the candlelight flickered light shadows across the table.

The waiter came in on James's side. "Done sir?"

"Yeah, go ahead."

Lars slid his fingers down to the handle. "And more wine, please." He rose his head and his glass, smiling softly. "Cabernet Sauvignon."

"Half or full glass?"

His eyes glanced at James, whose glare told him what to say. "Half."

"And are you..." The waiter gestured to his food with his free hand, the other balancing James's empty plate.

"No. Not yet."

The waiter let them be. They still didn't speak. James slouched comfortably in his chair, waiting with his hands in his lap like a parent waiting for his disobedient, rebellious child to come clean. He hated that damn look. His father never looked at him that way. Virgil might have done that to James many times, so he probably picked it up and patented it well. Like father, like son.

Lars massaged his fingers on his temple. All the wine he drank started to hit him bad. _God I'm a mean bitch tonight. What the fuck is up with me? Am I seriously acting like this because of what one person said? Who cares if it was James's older brother, he seems to not give a shit about Chris anyway. Seriously Ulrich, get the fuck over yourself. Stop being so pissy over this. You're upsetting James and ruining what's supposed to be a relaxed dinner._

"Here you are, sir."

The waiter offered him the half-glass of wine. Lars gave him a half-hearted smile to match. "Thanks."

He didn't touch it. Lars placed the glass beside his plate and rested his hands on his lap where his napkin still laid. Now he was tired. Now he wanted to leave, go back to the hotel, take a shower and slam his head face-first into the pillow. He was drunk, or on his way to becoming drunk. Either-or. He just wanted to forget everything today, forget the sneers and the judging looks he received, forget Chris's goddamn fucking words and--

"Lars?"

His head jerked up. "Hm?"

"Just say it."

His fear picked up again. "It's--"

"I know you think it's stupid. I don't care. I already know it's about my family." James sighed. "I'm not in the mood to deal with this kind of tension between us, okay? I've had enough of it today. Just get it out already and let's get this over with."

His elbows planted on either side of his plate, his fingers sliding up into his gelled hair, messing up what he spent an hour fixing this morning for the funeral. His stomach churned. He wanted to throw up. He tugged and he pulled at his hair, his head swimming from all the wine, and he wanted to scream so badly, his lips pursed together tight, trying to hold back that scream.

And then he sighed. He slid his hands down over his face and relaxed into his sweaty palms.

_Fuck it. Just... fuck it._

Lars pulled his hands away and laid them down on the table cloth, arms framing the plate. He took a deep breath and hoped for the best.

"How long have we been together, James?"

"Nine." James frowned. "Why?"

He glanced away. "Chris told me something after the funeral. He said--"

James sat up and leaned forward. "I thought you said he didn't say anything."

"Let me finish." He looked James in the eye. It hurt, but he had to do it. "He said if we were new together, it made sense you didn't tell me anything about yourself. But if we were together longer than a year or two--"

James snorted, looked away, mumbled something, and Lars barely caught the tail end of it-- "like that always, thinking the past defines someone. It's bullshit."

"And I know that. Okay? I'm not pushing you to open up. I don't expect that from you-- I mean, I don't _want_ to force you to open up to me. I don't expect you to do that, because it wouldn't be comfortable for you. Do you get what I mean? Like, I know you taking me to your family was a big thing. I understand that. And I'm not angry you didn't tell them. I'm not angry that you didn't tell me all the details about your past. It's not something I expected, because it's not something you're obligated to do. You said it yourself. Your past doesn't define who you are now. And that's true. You're not that shy kid I met at seventeen who could barely say hello to me. You grew up, and I like the person you've become. I guess... it just... I dunno. Sometimes it does bug me that I can open up no problem and you can't. Okay? I'll admit that.

"But the thing is, like, it's what I told Chris. When did we have time to have heart-to-heart talks? In between a tour? Album making? The damn accident? It's not something I expected to happen. We're both busy people who have to balance personal and professional. It's a constant work-in-progress with us. And it's not like I'm saying, you know, that you never opened up to me. You have. When you wrote Dyers Eve, I learned a little, and when you wrote all those beautiful songs on the Black Album, like The Unforgiven and The God That Failed, I learned even more. And with what you've shown me so far with this new stuff, like that snippet of Outlaw we're working on, it's so beautiful. And I know once we're done, I'll learn even more than before. You see?

"Like, I'm not saying it's your fault. I'm not saying you're the reason I feel this way. I'm not even saying it's Chris's fault. It's on me. It's on me that I don't ask you questions like, what's your mom's last name, what was it like living with your siblings, where did your dad take you places-- shit like that. It's on me that the only times I've felt like I've gotten to know more about you were all in the studio, all centered on our music. That when you made a song, and you talked to me how the inspiration was on a personal level, I came to understand you more, how you became what you are. I mean, I've had nine years to ask you questions and I only did that a few times, and of those few times, they were 90% in the studio, when we were making music, and 10% outside of it.

"I guess..." He worked through the lump in his throat, his face getting hot. His eyes turned downcast to the table. "I guess I feel... weird. Guilty almost. Like... nine years, and I didn't know until today your middle name was Alan. Or that your father threw your eldest brother through the screen door. Or that he left you at thirteen. All these little things that other people would know about the person they're with, you know? It's... it's like he was questioning our integrity as..."

"You can say it Lars." James's hand landed next to his on the table. "A couple. He was questioning our integrity as a couple."

Lars weakly smiled. He shifted his fingers to clasp James's hard and squeeze them. "Pretty stupid, huh? Letting that get to me."

James squeezed his fingers back. "No, the stupid part is sitting right in front of you."

He ran his thumb over James's skin. It was rare for James to publicly do something as intimate as this, and he appreciated every second of it. "I didn't want to say anything."

"I know you didn't. But you have every right to ask me a question. I'm not going to bite your head off if you ask me what my mom was like growing up."

"I just feel like..."

Lars trailed off as he heard footsteps come closer. He lifted his head and pulled his hand away from James's. A waiter walked past them with two new people to sit at a table thankfully far away from theirs.

He looked back at James, who sat back, the arm across the table sliding away, until the hand rested on the edge. James wasn't mad by his sudden movement. He understood, almost looked as relieved as he felt. Some things probably never changed, and they accepted long ago this was one.

"I feel like it's hard on you to talk about these things, okay?" Lars started again. "I'm afraid I'll bring up bad memories. I'm afraid I'll piss you off because I asked the wrong thing. And what gives me the authority to ask you these personal questions anyway? I feel like I have no place. I can only ask you when the timing's right. It's not like I can ask you in the middle of Master of Puppets somewhere in East Bumfuck, New Jersey, 'hey, what was it like growing up in LA' or whatever the fuck. I'm not going to do that to you. I don't want to add shit to your life that you don't need."

"Do you think about this all the time?"

"No. Only when shit like this happens."

"Like what?" James chuckled. "Funerals?"

Lars didn't laugh. He kept his focus on James, refusing to look away despite how badly he wanted to, as he gave a voice finally to his heart.

"When you tell me things about you that I never knew. When we were friends I pried early on but you slammed the door right in my face every time I got too close. And I'm not the type to pry again. I mean, I am, I can poke and pry shit out of people, but as much as I did that with you, I never did it again about your past. That was something precious for you, so I didn't. And I trusted that you'd tell me over time. But a few months turned into a year, then another year, then another year, and I'm not complaining about that. We were actually doing shit. We had music to make. Albums to sell. Tours to do. Interviews and merchandise and more touring and more album making and the accident and auditions and award shows and every other fucking thing in the universe. We were busy. We're still busy. It's a miracle we've had this time off from the Black Album like we have. We have the luxury to just be us, and thank fuck for that, because we needed it. So I'm not complaining about that. I guess what I'm trying to do is pin-point this... guilt I feel, because of what Chris said. Like how am I supposed to be with you, if I don't know everything about you? How am I with you like this, when I know so little? Why is that bugging me now? It shouldn't, you know? I trusted that you'd tell me on your own terms. I still trust that. But it's fucking _annoying_ that I'm allowing myself to be worked up like this. Is it so bad that I learned more about you from your songs? Is it really that bad that we're like this, you and I, and I've only learned about you through our music? I mean..."

He lifted his hands, curled like claws, emphasizing his frustration. "Fuck. I feel like I'm being torn in two, because while part of me thinks, yes, it's wrong, I'm a moron, I should've opened my mouth earlier, the other part says no, it's not wrong, this is just how it happened, fuck what other people think and do whatever you're doing, who gives a shit, you're not fulfilling anyone else's expectations of a relationship, you're your own person and so is James, so fuck them and fuck the world."

He slumped back in his chair, arms slapping onto his thighs. And he sighed long and hard, drained and done, shaking his head and closing his eyes.

"I just don't know what part of me to listen to."

There were tears under his eyelids. He felt them burning like the wine he drank all night, burning his skin, demanding release. But he wouldn't give in. He didn't cry at the funeral like James didn't. He didn't shed one tear as James said that beautiful eulogy. And he wasn't about to do it now in a public place like this, where anyone could stare and judge them like James's whole fucking family did all damn day. He didn't want it, didn't want the damn wondering, wandering eyes curious as to why a grown man was crying. And he wasn't going to give in. He was going to stay strong like James.

Calloused fingers brushed his again, running over his knuckles. "Lars... look at me."

He counted to three before he blinked them open. James was there, that arm stretched across the table again. His blue eyes were glossed over, the candlelight casting beautiful shadows on his face. He couldn't look away as James spoke.

"I had a hard life... and yeah, it did fuck me up..." He wrapped his hand fully around Lars's. "But you won't hurt me by asking a damn question about me. It's okay to do that. In the beginning I was being a dumbass. I didn't want anyone in. But you said it yourself earlier. I'm not who I was. I'm not that kid anymore. I grew up. There's some things that I probably still can't tell you, because they're difficult to talk about... but I won't completely shut you down." He squeezed Lars's hand. "Okay?"

He felt better. Much better. But there was still one nagging little fear he had to say. "I don't want you to force yourself to open up just because your brother said something."

"Fuck him. And fuck the rest of them for that matter." His smile was all confidence and peace. He looked beautiful. "It's about time I gave back something to you anyway."

Lars slipped his hand out of James's only to situate them again, so their fingers twined and their palms met. All the tension disappeared, the weight of his thoughts and feelings uplifted by James's soft words and his smile. He nodded to him and returned that smile, squeezing James's hand as James squeezed back. He was ready.

"Okay, min skat. I'm listening."

 

 

They left the restaurant at closing time. The rain had stopped by then. Lars didn't touch his half glass of wine the entire time James spoke. In the past five hours James spent talking about his life, from his childhood religious upbringing to his siblings to his mother and his father, Lars learned more about him than he had the entire fifteen years he knew James. And as much as the returned guilt weighed on him as he left the restaurant hand-in-hand with James, there was a newfound peace inside himself that kept that weight from completely ruining his insides. It was okay he didn't know. Now he knew he could ask questions, he could get to know James more, and as tonight proved, there was so much more to learn, and he liked that. He was always attracted to the mystery of James, the western villain he dubbed him the first day they met. He was the Angel Eyes, the bad guy, not the Clint Eastwood, the Man With No Name. But James was his bad guy, and now he could delve into the dark hole of his past without fear, as long as James guided the way.

James drove them to their hotel, leaving the keys with valet, a hand on the small of Lars's back as they walked to their room. Lars showered first, since he was the one who took the longest, and James gave him a dirty look when Lars emerged an hour later, steam rising from the bathroom. But it quickly turned playful when Lars dumped the towel around his waist and James slapped his ass before he raced for the shower himself.

He dried himself off and slipped into the covers naked. Outside the rain started up again, pounding on the windows, accompanied by the loud wind. James's voice singing in the shower overpowered nature, and Lars smiled, turning onto his side and tucking the pillow under his head. He felt better. Much better. There was a hope inside himself when before there was doubt, an abysmal doubt. That doubt was still there, but it didn't suck up everything, it didn't command all of his attention. They were going to be okay. James was going to be okay.

Lars nodded off to the husky rumble of James's echoing timbre. He woke up to soft lips tickling his ear and large hands spreading across his shoulders down his back.

"Babe?"

"Mm..." He lifted his head, looked over his shoulder, blinked open his eyes. "Yeah James?"

The hands on his back slipped around his waist. James pulled Lars close, their lips brushing-- and he rolled them over so Lars rested on top.

Lars held his breath as he settled between James's parted thighs, the legs closing around his hips.

James slid his hands up Lars's muscled back, fingers skipping over the shoulder blades.

They were not used to these positions. It was irregular, a blip in normality, but it was as normal to them as breathing. As needed as breathing. The last time Lars rested above James like this, the weather was colder, their bodies were younger, the sun was up and the world had changed on them one ugly September morning. James typically didn't bend like this. Didn't beg like this. But Lars understood why. The whole day emphasized why.

In the minor light from the bathroom, Lars saw the plea before James ever asked please. He leaned in and kissed James's softly, his hands settling on James's chest.

"Okay."

And Lars took control like he did then.

He coaxed moans and sighs, whimpers and chokes from the body below him, and it burned him alive, burned his stomach and his heart and his mind. He tasted salt and sweat, rough and soft skin, James's gasps and James himself. Height didn't matter. Size didn't matter. The way James held his body, arms and legs wrapped so tight around his waist and neck he thought he'd suffocate before he pushed in, that was all that mattered to Lars.

Lars sucked on James's neck, peppered his face and his chest with kisses as the grip James had all day on his control slipped away the more Lars moved inside him. James twitched in his hand, gasped in his mouth, clawed at his hair and his back and arched into his body, blue eyes wide open in the darkness, that hitched moan desperate for more. And Lars gave everything to him. He sought James's pleasure first before his own. He felt and saw James's body coil up and unwind, come apart at the seams as he struggled for every next breath, and he followed soon after, bruising his hips and biting his bottom lip while the burn between them incinerated Lars completely, leaving him weak and bone dry.

His lips found James's and they kissed sloppy, open-mouthed. He flattened his palms on James's wet cheeks and centered them both, changing the tempo of the kiss as his hips slowed down. James murmured when Lars pulled out and slipped to his side, an arm left around his chest, one above his head. And James was the one who pushed his head beneath Lars's chin, ensnaring Lars's body in his big arms and pressing his cheek over Lars's heart, hugging Lars as if someone soon was going to take away his favorite, precious toy from him and he refused to let that happen. Lars said nothing of it. There was nothing to say. This was something James wanted, and Lars would never deny his wants.

With his free hand, Lars grabbed as much of the sheets as possible and tucked it around them both, leaving that arm around James's back. In the room, all he heard was the rush of his own heartbeat pounding in his head, the slight buzz of the heater, the fat raindrops still pounding on their hotel window and James's soft breathing.

Lars ran his fingers through James's sweaty hair, brushing the short fuzzed sides, expecting long ends from root to tip and stiffening when he touched bare neck. He forgot the mullet was gone. The last of James's long hair wasn't there anymore. James changed because of them, and he did the same thing. And for what? To look presentable? To fit in? Only to be ridiculed, sneered, judged, their names whispered like unholy prayers, forever damned to whatever wicked hell that may come because of who they were? No. As far as Lars was concerned, they changed for themselves, for their own good, not for them. Not for those two-faced assholes. They needed to change to survive, to move on and grow as people and as artists, unlike those idiots who never showed a subtle hint of maturity. They'd never change. They were stuck in their ways as emotional lechers and vampires, and hopefully James learned that after today.

"Lars?"

James's lips rested on the hollow of his throat. The vibrations made him shiver and smile, forgetting his dark thoughts for now. "Hm?"

"I should've said something sooner."

"About?"

"About this. Me saying shit. So you didn't doubt." James squeezed his waist. "You're not supposed to doubt anything. You're supposed to just know."

Lars closed his eyes. "I know you James. I might not know all of you... but I know _you._ " He tilted his chin down, lips brushing James's temple. "The real you."

His fingers kept stroking and petting James's hair. The other hand laid palm-flat on the small of James's back. The rain pelted their window harder, the wind blowing like an angry sailor at sea.

"They're jealous of us, y'know." James's soft whisper still commanded his attention like his yell would. "That's why my brother said something. Why they treated you like shit. I told you, Lars. My family isn't like yours, where they support each other, don't double cross or gossip or shit. They don't try to put people down to make themselves feel better. They're a real honest-to-God family. I love your family. Mine's a piece of shit, but it's the only family I've got. I wish I could let them go but I can't yet." He sighed. "Someday I will."

Lars kissed his temple. "I'm sorry you had to live with that."

He pressed his forehead into Lars's throat. "I'm not. I became who I am because of it." One of his hands started to stroke Lars's back. "I know I said the past doesn't define me... it haunts me, yeah... and I'm trying not to let it define me." He stopped his hand in the middle of Lars's shoulder blades. "It's hard, Lars, trying to escape your roots. I'm not like them, but I am them. I hate it."

His fingers hit a tangle in James's hair. "I wish I could relate." He unraveled his hand and cupped the back of James's neck. "Sometimes I feel bad I have wonderful parents who still love me."

"Don't be." James shifted his head, tilted his chin up to press a kiss to Lars's jugular. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin. "Thanks to them... I got what I needed most."

Lars slid the hand on James's neck to the back of his head, fingers weaving through sweaty hair. His closed eyes screwed up tight as he slid the other hand from the small of James's back to his waist, holding his side in a tight grip.

James followed suit, tightening one large arm across Lars's slender shoulder blades, the other around his small waist. His cheek pressed into the hollow of Lars's throat, his head tucked under Lars's chin.

The rain almost swallowed up James's soft sob. Almost. Had James's lips not been so close to him, he might have not heard it. But he did. He felt it under his hands, against his throat, the hiccups hitting his chest like bullets to his heart. So he pressed his lips to James's skin, tightened his arms around James's body and stayed perfectly still as pieces of James's statue tumbled down with each sob hiccuped into the air.

"I'm here, James," Lars whispered. "I'm right here."

He held the pieces together as best he could all the way 'til morning.


End file.
